


i literally cant think of a title heres some smutty knifeplay

by CarpoMetaCarpal (VoltageInside)



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Blood, F/M, Knifeplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 03:51:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6888754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoltageInside/pseuds/CarpoMetaCarpal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>request: “ I mean, obviously Hancock likes knives and that would go really well with a slightly masochistic SS, dont you agree?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	i literally cant think of a title heres some smutty knifeplay

**Author's Note:**

> who doesnt love his spinny knife tricks

Hancock hated how she could read him like a fucking book. He prided himself in being that calm, relaxed, but completely calculating mayor that no one knew his true intentions.

So when he started travelling with the vault dweller, one could believe how pissed he was that she always knew what was on his mind.

Currently, it was the knife she had pulled out of a Raider’s pockets. He tried not to eye it, but it was too nice for that fucker to have been using. It was a beautiful silver blade, with its edges smooth and sharp. Its handle was black, with a comfortable grip and a small line of gold circling the bottom. Just above the circle was a tiny, etched American flag, impressed into the leather of the handle and lined with more gold. He looked away, off to search another body, but her voice stopped him.

“Hancock,” she called him back, always called him back, and he came, like a dog on a leash. She held her flat palm out, blade presented. “Take it.”

He glanced at her cautiously - he was still getting used to her. No one just gave shit away, especially something nice like this. Obviously his wariness showed, because she laughed, that bell-like laugh that made his throat burn.

“It’s alright, I don’t need it. You like it, its yours.”

Wordlessly, he accepted, feeling its weight in his hands, twirling it with a few tricky spins. He glanced up from it to see her tongue dart out to wet her bottom lip, and he couldn’t help himself - he swooped in to kiss her.

They didn’t show affection in public often - too many assholes who’d want to take advantage of that. But it was just too much for a poor, sinning, drug-addicted ghoul to accept that she actually loved him, actually just did things to make him happy.

-

There wasn’t a word to described just how relieved they were when Sanctuary came into view. The treks they walked took longer and longer, it seemed. They breezed past miniguns and guard posts, waving tiredly, trying not to appear rushed. 

She had fixed up her old home, adding a surrounding wall and roof to block off the storms and weather. She shut the door behind her as he stepped through, shedding their boots. After a quick, hastily-warmed dinner of whatever they’d pulled out, they moved to retire.

The sun had set and John lit some of their candles, the fire glowing across his face. Despite their generators, they still liked to preserve the energy, and especially if someone else needed it. When he turned back, his love had laid back on the bed, stripped of all clothing but her underwear. Her arm was thrown over her face, as if to block the world, to fall asleep.

He stepped quietly over to the bed, leaning down to press a kiss over her heart, his hands cradling her bare sides. She sighed in contentment, removing her arm to beckon him in to kiss her. He obliged, propping a knee onto the bed,then the other, until he was straddling her. He hadn’t told her, but she had to know - he loved this kind of thing. When he was fully dressed - well, mostly, anyway - and she was down to little or nothing. Something about it just really turned him on, got him heated quick. 

Their kiss was languid, relaxed - they rarely got to relax, what with him being a mayor, her being the minutemen’s general, and both of them trying to save the fucking Commonwealth. Any moment of peace was cherished, even if it meant taking a moment like this and prolonging it.

Her hands pushed along his shoulders until he got the hint and wriggled out of his coat, letting it fall gently to the floor. She tugged impatiently at his shirt, as well, and he chuckled into her mouth, letting her have her way. 

As she removed it, she broke away to look at it, puzzled. Brain foggy with desire, he just furrowed his brow until she shook it a bit, to indicate it was far too heavy.

“Ah,” he breathed, before pulling the knife from one of his pockets. He went to put it on the side table, but her hand grabbed his wrist. He cocked a brow at her.

“I…” She looked at it for a second. “Use it.”

Baffled, he sat up. “Excuse me?”

She shifted, as if uncomfortable. Her voice was barely audible. “I think it’s sexy… y’know. When you play with ‘em. And just… I dunno, you with knives.”

Hancock would’ve purred in delight, but he was still too perplexed. “You’re tellin’ me, I find the love of my life, and she wants me to stab her?” 

She laughed, pulling him in for a brief kiss. “No, no, just…”

He pressed the blade very gently to her lips. “I get it, doll. Just teasin’. Remember your word?”

She nodded, repeating it back to him. He smiled, twirling the knife. Her eyes were transfixed on the expert spin of the blade, licking at her lips. He trailed the flat of the blade down her cheek, purring when she turned to press her lips against the silver. 

Later, he’d laugh. They really were a freakshow.

Now, though, his free hand held her hip, to anchor both her and himself. The other trailed the knife down her throat, along the dip of at the edge of her windpipe. She hissed in a breath, and he pressed just a little harder. Not yet, though. Not yet.

He traced her clavicle, and paused at the tiny bit of cotton connecting the two halves of her bra.

“Off,” he snapped, much deeper than he’d intended. He’d cut it off, but he knew that bras especially had a habit of being hard to find as well as not fitting, and he wouldn’t have her pissed later if he cut it.

She obliged, sitting up to unclip it and toss it aside, eyes trained on his. He held her gaze for a beat, before letting them fall to her breasts. She subconsciously arched, just a hair, showing off for him. He purred in approval, running his thumb along her nipple. He pressed the flat of the blade across it soon after, the cold contrast sharper than the edge. He tilted it up, and finally applied a hair of pressure, making a tiny, thin line across the top of her breast.

She groaned, arching into the light scrape. Blood welled, but didn’t spill over yet. His mouth ran dry at the sight, slightly agape. He looked down at the blade, the flag proudly staring back up at him from between his fingers.

Hancock ventured further, finally tracing the left side her clavicle with the blade. He tried to make this one quicker, and succeeded in letting the wound open enough to let a thin line of blood drip out of the middle.

He leaned down, letting his tongue fall out and licking it one with one long swipe. She moaned, bucking into him, and he rolled his hips against her, causing the volume to escalate briefly. 

He repeated the action with the other side of her collarbone, down to the roll of his hips. Hancock sat back up, checking on her. She nodded to him, panting, a hand covering his briefly to give it a reassuring squeeze.

He traced circles around her nipple with the very tip, and she trembled with excitement. When he gently gave it a flick (with the blunt side, of course, so as not to cut the sensitive skin,) she moaned his name.

He ventured further down to trace each rib, occasionally pressing a new, dripping wound across, as if to accentuate them. The blade moved to her hipbones, opposite his hand. He cut a line over it, harder than the others. A small stream oozed out, down her inner thigh, dripping onto the bed. 

He slid down her body, inserting the knife between her panties and hip. Unlike bras, finding these in her size was much easier. He caught her eye and slashed away from her, cutting them in one swift movement. He did it for the other side, ripping the torn garment away from her. 

Hancock placed his hand on her thigh, letting the knife rest between them. He dipped his head and gave one long lick up her sex, relishing the intimacy. 

He traced the folds, sucked on her clit, even pressed his tongue inside her. The taste of her mingling with her blood made his head spin. He brought the knife to eye level, using the handle’s end to slide over her clit like he would his cock. 

Trembling under his ministrations, his love was a total wreck, blood from various wounds mixing with her sweat. She moaned and begged, desperate to finish. 

He traced his name into her inner thigh - not enough to scar, but definitely enough to bleed his name, as he did hers. He smirked, maybe later he’d actually leave his brand for any fucker who tried to take her from him.

For now, he fucked her with his tongue, inside and out, until she grabbed the sheets, thrusting up into him, head tilted back. As she did, he cut a new, clean line along her opposite, clean thigh, adding pain to her pleasure.

He tongue fucked her through her orgasm, long and loud and heady, until finally she was gasping on the sheets and he pulled away. He kissed her and she responded, satisfied.

He crawled off of her, placing the knife gently on the side table as he intended. He picked her up carefully, carrying her to the bathroom to clean her wounds from infectious-threats. She leaned her head heavily into his neck and shoulder as he worked, murmuring words of adoration and love. He just smiled, carrying her back after she was cared for and snuggling in beside her, his hand covering the cut over her heart to feel the beat as it lulled them to sleep.


End file.
